


of love and loss

by sherlockfuckery



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Letters, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 10:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockfuckery/pseuds/sherlockfuckery
Summary: John writes a letter to Sherlock after he dies.





	of love and loss

Sherlock

When you jumped, I was, to say the least, infuriated. Your beautiful, beautiful mind. Gone just like that. You were too great for something so animal, so disrespectful. The worst part is, they’ll never truly know just how brilliant you were. The worst part is, only I know now, and I can’t convince anyone else of your brilliance because I simply am not you. They won’t, and will never, truly understand.

I know I’m neglecting myself. I know I’m not eating. I know I don’t go outside. I know I stare at your chair all day. I know, I know, I know.

It’s your fault, you bastard. You weren’t supposed to do this, you know. You weren’t supposed to say those quirky things, or intrigue me with you and your mysterious and your stupid cheekbones, or make me love you the way I have. And still do, and always will, because that’s what you did. You especially were not supposed to do all those things, and leave me behind like that.

I tried to cope. When you left, I didn’t even know how to properly grieve. I looked it up. I literally grabbed my laptop, sat down, typed “How to grieve” into the search bar and read three whole bloody articles. Denial worked well for a day. It was nice. I imagined a whole scenario, and played it in my head, over and over, like a movie you never want to stop watching. We argued over whose turn it was to grab the groceries, I made you go and get them, and then I simply waited. When you didn’t come for a while, I got worried and called you, and you answered and told me you’d be back in a jiffy, just a bit of the usual old London traffic. It was better. Much better. It gave me something to look forward to, instead of this feeling within me now, just utter hopelessness.

Am I going insane? Don’t answer that.

Oh wait, you can’t.

Is it bad that I laughed? Oh god, it hurts. That you’re not here, doing your funny little chuckle. That you’re not telling me how average my brain is. That you’re not feeling bad about telling me that and apologizing by telling me how wonderful I am. You don’t know how much I hurt. I always thought those phrases were utter horse crap - you know, the cliche ones you’ll find in a romantic film or an “inspirational” book. But they’re true. There is, quite literally a gaping hole in my heart.

I went through your things. Don’t be mad. I found all the music pieces you wrote, and now I’m desperately trying to learn the fiddle just so I can hear them. I wish you were here to teach me.

I loved you.

John.


End file.
